rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Premature Summer

All the poppies have gone, and the azaleas are wilting. The jasmine flowers look worn from the heat. Evening has brought some relief, but the air remains still and the dark leaves barely move as the pale sky darkens into dusk. The details are leaving the world, leaving it full of absence. No stars have emerged, and the waning moon won't rise for hours. A few crickets do what they can to liven things up, but it's a thankless task.

Cars pass along the nearby road that goes to the valley and the mountains, but I am still here as still as the air. Dogs bark, but they only annoy me. What could be so important as to make this disruption of my lethargy anything but disreputable? Go to sleep, dogs! I've been beaten down by the sun, and all I want to do is close my eyes and imagine in silence other places where cool breezes might be blowing.




Sunday Verse



by Gilbert Sorrentino


How I loved that melody,
a thing, it was, it was
an entity, fresco, substantial,

part of a season, color fixed
in plaster, gentle and mordant
on the air it was. The sound of it

bright over waters of the lake.
Morning. Sunlight. The water
quiet on the raft. My

body, it was, my ear, my
possibility of life, still, a fresco
it was, some melody I forget

what. A tone it was. A mix
of life and time dying
in sunlight: I loved that melody

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